The Burned Body in the Park
by stephasaurus rex
Summary: When a body is found in a nearby park, Booth and Brennan investigate. Set somewhere within seasons 1 and 2
1. Chapter 1

Booth swore quietly under his breath as he flipped on his lights and siren, making a barely legal U-turn on Vermont and Twelfth Northwest. He gritted his teeth, jaw bulging, knuckles tight on the steering wheel, as he sped east on Logan towards DC General Hospital . Seeley James Booth, former Ranger sniper, FBI field agent, starting forward on his hockey team, and father of a third grader, a man of total self-control and commendable personal strength, fought the urge to panic and floor it to the ER. He had just gotten one of the most frightening phone calls of his life.

Just a few minutes before, Booth had been on his way home after a long day at the office—even field agents had desk days--and if that field agent was a champion procrastinator, those desk days were packed solid with four months' worth of paperwork. His cell phone chirped in his pocket, and Booth dug it out as he signaled and made a left onto Riggs.

"Booth."

"Is this Seeley Booth?"

"Yeah. Who's this?"

"Mr. Booth, my name is Amy. I'm calling from DC General. I'm afraid there's been an accident."

The world stopped. Booth's heart screamed for his son, his mother, his brother, his sister. Blood pounded so hard in his temples, it drowned out the tinny voice.

"—Briefly lost consciousness, but we were able to—"

"Wait." Booth interrupted, breathless, his mouth dry. "Could you repeat all that?"

"Of course. EMTs brought in Miss Temperance Brennan about twenty minutes ago. Her vehicle was broadsided, and although she did lose consciousness for a brief period, our doctors are confident that she did not sustain any permanent damage. We'll be putting her under shortly for a reduction of a displaced comminuted fracture to her left tibia, and she requested that we call you before her surgery."

"I'm coming." He swallowed, his tongue sandpaper. "I'll be right there."

"Thank you. I'll relay that to Miss Brennan."

Booth slowed in caution, but continued through a red light. He kept seeing cars, trucks, SUVs, Hummers, crashing into Bones' BMW. By the time he reached the ER visitor parking lot, he was surprised he hadn't ground his teeth into dust.

Seeley Booth jumped out, slamming his door, and locking the black standard FBI-issue SUV with his remote starter as he jogged to the glass-door entrance of the massive hospital. He was greeted by a blast of air between two sets of motion sensor doors. Once inside, Booth rushed to a large reception desk. He dug out his FBI credentials while demanding of a slightly obese secretary: "Temperance Brennan. Where is she?"

"Brennan…Brennan." The woman consulted her computer.

"Yes, Brennan. Dr. Temperance Amelia Bre—"

"Curtain Area Five. Go to the right, past the nurses' station, third bed."

Booth nodded his thanks and strode down the wide ER hall. He soon passed a semicircular corral with two nurses discussing an open chart.

The first bed held an elderly man, electrodes on his chest trailing wires from a screen registering irregular blips, a doctor shaking his head, lips pursed. The second bed was empty, sheets being stripped and bundled into a linen cart by a man in salmon pink scrubs. The third bed…

"Bones…" he croaked. Her right eye was nearly swollen shut, bruises beginning to form down her cheek and neck. An IV line snaked from her arm up to a mostly full bag hanging from a pole. Her left leg was in a trough-like brace, an ugly purple bulge a few inches below her knee. Her pant leg had been cut halfway up her thigh, and she was unraveling a deep red string from the frayed edge.

"Booth—you came." Brennan smiled tentatively. The simple action looked painful and Booth cringed.

"Of course I came. Did you think I wouldn't?" He crossed the small "room" and pulled a cheap plastic chair up to her bedside, sitting down and taking her left hand.

"Booth—don't look so devastated." She chuckled lightly and winced. "It's not as bad as it looks. I'm fine."

"What happened, Bones?" Booth's voice was full of concern, and when she gently squeezed his hand, he realized that Brennan was comforting him.

"A Tahoe, I think, ran the intersection and hit me on the passenger side. It pushed me into the path of an oncoming car. EMS got there pretty quickly, but I think I passed out in the ambulance on the way here."

"The woman I spoke to mentioned you did. And you're going up to surgery?"

Brennan nodded. "I asked them to wait. They wanted me to go right away."

As if on cue, a dark haired woman in a lab jacket and light green scrubs joined them. "Hello. I'm Dr. Halloway."

Booth stood, and they shook hands. "Seeley Booth."

The doctor nodded in greeting and turned her attention back to the bed. "Ready Miss Brennan?"

Temperance glanced up at Booth before answering. Booth thought he detected a twinge of uncertainty in her blue eyes. "Yes," she answered, a bit waveringly.

"Okay then." Dr. Halloway smiled confidently and signaled two orderlies to come near.

"I'll see you soon, Bones. You're going to be fine."

Brennan's eyes searched his, and Booth gently laid a hand across her forehead. "I'll see you soon," he repeated. Booth slid his hands into his pants pockets as the orderlies unlocked the bed's brakes with deft kicks to the wheels and began their trip to surgery. A third orderly kindly directed Booth to the surgical waiting room. He nodded, and after a moment, followed the orderly's simple instructions, past the ambulance bays to a bank of elevators, up to the second floor, and all the way to the end of another double wide hallway to a glassed-in room, where about a dozen worried faces sat pretending to read magazines. Booth collapsed into one of the blue vinyl chairs, suddenly exhausted. He tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and began to pray.

Almost two hours had passed before Booth realized his selfishness. He stepped out of the waiting room, flipped open his cell, and entered a now familiar number.

"Hey, Booth!" Angela Montenegro greeted the agent in her usual pleased and somewhat suggestive voice. "What's up, cutie?"

"Angela—I should've called you sooner. It's Bones."

"What is it? What happened? Is she okay?"

"She's in surgery." Booth went on to explain the accident. "She should be out soon. I think she'll want you here when she's done."

"Okay, I'll be right there. And Booth?"

"Yeah?"

"We'll talk later about whether or not I will ever forgive you for waiting hours to call me."

Booth sighed, reentered the waiting room, and was about to sit back down in the hideous, squeaking chair, preparing himself to endure untold hours in the fear-infused waiting room, when a nurse opened a door leading to the recovery ward and called out, "Family of Temperance Brennan?"

Booth shot up and nearly tripped in his rush to reach the nurse. "Yes ma'am."

"Just you then?"

"For now, yes."

"Okay. Follow me." As the nurse led Booth past rows of curtained beds, some occupied, some not, but all equipped with TV screens to monitor vital signs, she explained Brennan's condition.

"Miss Brennan is stable, the surgery was successful, and her leg is casted. She'll have to keep off it for two to three days, but other than that, she should be fine with crutches. She'll have to see an orthopedist and physical therapist initially, but any further treatment will be determined at future office visits.

"She's still coming out of sedation. She may be confused; she may exhibit some minor muscle twitching, possibly a little drooling. This is nothing to worry about and should wear off very soon."

Booth nodded.

"Also, Versed was used in addition to the general anesthetic, so she may have some lapses in memory from immediately before and after the operation. Any questions?"

The nurse had stopped and was looking pointedly at Booth, but he barely noticed her. They were standing at the foot of Bones' bed. She was pale. God, she was pale. It was the first thing he saw looking at her. She still had an IV, though Booth didn't know if it was the same one as before. Her index finger held a small black clip, and a blood pressure cuff hugged her upper arm on the other side.

"Sir?" the nurse prodded him. "Do you have any questions?"

"She's—" Booth took a ragged breath. "She's okay, right? I mean, she looks…" Still? Small? Helpless? He couldn't form the words.

"I know it looks rough." Compassion flowed from the nurse's eyes to her gentle smile. "I can assure you, she did excellently in surgery; she's going to be fine. She'll be waking up soon. You should talk to her, let her know where she is, what's going on. Believe me, it'll help." The nurse gave Booth's arm a quick, reassuring squeeze, then turned and left.

The chairs here were just as uncomfortable. Booth pulled up a metal folding chair. This hospital seemed to be designed to keep people from sitting very long.

Booth tentatively reached out and brushed a few stray hairs from Brennan's damp forehead. He cleared his throat. "Bones, uh, the nurses here say you're waking up. I'm right here, okay? And you're going to be great. Up and playing kickball in no time." Booth's hand was still at Brennan's forehead, and he found himself absently stroking her hair.

"They said you were awesome in surgery. Of course, you're such an overachiever, I should've expected that.

"I called Angela. She's coming to see you too. She's—" Booth stopped as Brennan suddenly groaned and shifted.

"Bones? Bones, can you hear me?"

"Booth," she slurred.

"Yeah. It's me. You okay? You doing all right? Are you—is there any pain?"

"What—what time is it?" Brennan asked slowly.

Booth grinned, elated and relieved. "What time is it? You're barely out of surgery, and the first thing out of your mouth is 'what time is it?' It's 8:30."

Brennan nodded and closed her eyes.

They passed a few minutes in silence before Booth asked again, "Hey. Bones, you all right?"

She opened her eyes. She still looked drowsy, uncertain. "I think so. Is there…water?"

Booth spotted a pink plastic pitcher, four cups, and a handful of wrapped straws waiting on the bedside table. "Comin' up." He poured her a glass, stuck in a straw, and held the tip to her lips. She tried to sip, but water dribbled from the straw down her chin, and she coughed as she tried to swallow.

"Jeez, Bones, I'm sorry." Booth grabbed paper napkins, also stacked on the bedside table, and dried the water from Brennan's chin and neck.

"No, it's ok. I think it was me."

"You want to try again?" Booth asked.

"Please."

Brennan sipped, successful this time, then nodded her head, leaned back, and closed her eyes. Booth was reaching across her, placing the cup back on the table, when Angela parted the half-drawn curtains and joined them.

"Oh my God, Bren, honey, are you okay?"

Brennan opened her eyes and smiled. "Angela—hey. I'm fine."

"You're nowhere near fine. And you." Angela turned to Booth. "I'm going to kill you for waiting so long to call me." He stood, as Angela laid a hand over her eyes, and, in what Booth decided must be nervous, emotional energy, heaved a sigh almost on the verge of tears.

"Ange, I'm sorry. She's doing great, though." He moved to touch her shoulder in what he hoped was comfort, but Angela took it as an invitation and pulled Booth into a tight hug.

"I'm sorry. That phone call just scared the crap out of me, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

"Don't worry about it. I'm just glad you got here so fast."

"Are you kidding? My tires are practically in flames."

Booth grinned and handed her a second folding chair. The three of them talked, Brennan's speech improving. She gradually stopped slurring her words, and was soon talking at a normal pace.

It wasn't long before a middle aged, male doctor joined them. "Well, hi there. You look well." He greeted Brennan.

"I'm feeling pretty well."

"Excellent. I'm Dr. Fenway." Introductions were made all around, and Dr. Fenway continued, "Your vitals look fantastic, Miss Brennan, and if things keep progressing as they are, you should be on your way home in the morning. Provided you have someone to drive you."

The last statement was more of a question, and Booth quickly answered with a firm, "Absolutely."

"Excellent." Dr. Fenway said again. "I'll be checking back in on you later, Miss Brennan. Mr. Booth, Miss Montenegro ." Dr. Fenway left Brennan's "room" and continued on to check on his next patient.

As the evening and Brennan's recovery progressed, she was transferred to a standard room on the medical-surgical floor. Visiting hours were long over, and, though exceptions had been made while Brennan was regaining herself, nurses soon chased out both Booth and Angela, sending them home so Brennan could rest.

Early the next morning, though, Booth was more than ready for his new gig as chauffer. Booth knocked on the doorframe of Room 3104. "Rise and shine, Doc. Whaddya say, you ready to ditch this popsicle stand?"

Booth heard Brennan spit, then run water in the bathroom. "It's 9:30, Booth. I've already risen. Whether or not I'm shining…" Brennan emerged from the bathroom in a hospital gown, hair in a ponytail, and without makeup.

"Well, you look great to me. Really getting around on that thing." Booth gestured to her heavy cast. "But aren't you supposed to stay off your feet for two or three days?"

"I am not calling for a wheelchair just to use the bathroom. Besides, it's only Saturday. I have all weekend to rest."

"Whoa. You are not coming back to work on Monday, are you? Bones, you've got to take it easy."

"Why? After I allow a little time for the osteons to begin to reform, I'll be perfectly fit for work. It's not as though my brain was in any way damaged."

"Well, yeah, but…you know, I don't want you to overdo it."

Brennan sighed. "I won't. Now, did you bring me clothes?"

"Oh, yeah." Booth handed her a plastic bag with a loose-fitting outfit inside.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. I'll just wait in the hall a few minutes until you're ready." Booth stepped out and shut the door behind him. He leaned back against the wall. All hospitals were the same, he reflected. Was there a manual somewhere, a book of guidelines that said the walls had to be some pasty, nauseating shade of pink or green or lunch-tray tan? Did they have to build the place with cinderblocks? The floors so slick, the windows so thick? Booth didn't like hospitals: they always left him with a vague sense of being trapped and a nagging feeling that awful things were about to happen.

Brennan's door opened and she stepped out, clad in a baggy jogging suit, leaning on crutches.

"Ready?" Booth asked.

"All set."

As they turned and began their slow walk down the hall to the elevators, Brennan noticed that Booth's hand was hovering just behind her lower back.

"Booth, I've used crutches before, you know. I'm not going to fall."

"You're right. You're not."

Brennan rolled her eyes. "Because you'll catch me if I do?"

"Damn straight." Booth flashed her his charm grin.

"You and your alpha male tendencies."

"Oh, admit it. You like me, alpha male and all."

"Of course I like you, Booth. Our partnership would be a very strained one if I didn't."

"Fully recovered from the anesthetics, I see."

"What do you mean?"

"Back to the witty banter."

Brennan smiled, but said nothing. Her walk was fairly smooth with the crutches until they reached Booth's SUV. Brennan eyed the step up she would have to make. "Booth…"

"No problem, Bones."

Booth took her crutches and placed them in the backseat. Then he put one arm around Brennan's waist, the other steadying her in front. "Now just step up with your good leg, put all your weight on me, and just pull yourself up." Brennan easily did so, and was snapping her seatbelt in place as Booth hopped in the driver's seat.

"You okay?"

"Booth, yes, I'm fine."

"Okay, okay. I'm just checking."

Booth started the engine and they drove to Brennan's apartment in a comfortable silence. It wasn't long before Brennan drifted off to sleep, head lolling to the side.

Booth shook his head and sighed. She would definitely strain herself this weekend. Temperance Brennan was the queen of overdoing it. 'Bedrest' probably wasn't even in her vocabulary.

When they pulled up to Brennan's apartment, Booth looked at her for a moment, thinking. Should he let her sleep, carry her up to her apartment? No, he decided. He'd have to maneuver the SUV door, her seatbelt, the locked door to her place. There was just no way to do that with anyone over six. Booth got out and walked around to her side.

"Bones. Bones. We're here." Brennan's eyes fluttered open.

"Oh. Yeah." She undid her seatbelt and looked down at the ground. "Booth…I'm sorry, but I don't…"

"You have absolutely no faith in me, do you?"

Brennan sighed.

"Okay, just put your arms around my neck and lean out." Booth slipped one arm under her back and one under her knees, lifting her easily. Brennan blinked in the bright sunlight and turned her face to Booth's neck for a moment, closing her eyes, relaxing against him. She felt him breathe. His pulse beat butterfly wings against her cheek. She could've stayed there forever.

"Bones? You okay?"

"Yes. Sorry."

Booth set her down, steadying her a moment before removing his hands altogether.

"I guess I'm a little more tired than I thought."

Booth said nothing at first, studying her. "Let's get you inside, then." He handed her the pair of crutches. She was acutely aware that his hand resumed its previous position, hovering protectively, but she didn't comment. Wearily, she walked down the hall with Booth and unlocked her apartment door.

"Are you sure there's nothing I can do? Nothing you need help with?"

"Booth, for the last time, I'll be fine." Brennan stifled a yawn. "I'm just going to go to bed. Doctor's orders, after all." She started to close the door, but Booth braced his hand against it, holding the door open.

"Bones, wait. Promise me, at least, that if you need anything—anything—day or night, you'll call me. I mean it, Temperance. Promise me."

"I promise."

Booth nodded. "Okay, then. Get some rest, Bones."

"I will. And thank you, Booth." She eased the door closed, felt and heard the latch click, then turned the deadbolt. She paused, then, still leaning on the door, and allowed herself to remember the feel of his arms around her, the closeness of the moment, his scent, his touch. Dr. Temperance Brennan shook her head, dispelling the image. She was tired. Brennan hobbled into her bedroom and, not bothering to undress, gingerly lied down and fell asleep almost immediately.

Booth sat in his SUV. He hadn't even put the key in the ignition. He wondered if he'd done the right thing, allowing her to dismiss him so easily. Oh well, he thought. She's a big girl. She'd call if she needed help. Booth shifted in his seat and pulled out his cell phone, checking to be sure the volume was up. As he stared absently at the tiny glowing screen, his thoughts wandered back to that moment of helping Bones out of the SUV. How light she was, how trusting in his unspoken promise not to hurt her, and how, when she'd buried her face against his neck, he felt his heart beat harder, her warm breath across his Adam's apple. He shook his head. Dreaming on the job, he chastised himself. He started the engine and drove home.

Brennan's leg ached more than she was willing to let on. She had stifled not a few groans from the constant throbbing, but she was by no means ready to call in sick and neglect her work at the Jeffersonian.

Her endurance paid off when she saw Booth enter the lab with his trademark walk and triumphant prepared-for-anything grin.

"Bones!" Booth's eyebrows shot up. "Guess I can't say I'm surprised to see you here. How are you doing?"

"I'm fine. You seem to be in a good mood this morning."

"I am in a fantastic mood. You know why?" Booth swiped his ID card at the foot of a low stairwell leading up to the lab proper. "Because we have a case, and, since you're back, I don't have to use Zack."

"Hey," Zack called, looking up from a tank of white mice. "I heard that. And I am fully qualified as an anthropologist."

"Yeah, but you're also fully qualified as a geek. And would you even want to be out in the field, Zack? Really?"

"No. The question is moot, anyway, as Dr. Brennan is available. I just want to be considered a viable substitute."

"Okay, Zack, sure. You're viable." Booth elbowed Brennan conspiratorially. "Now whaddya say we check out a body?"

"Sure. Lead the way." Brennan began pulling off the latex gloves she'd been wearing.

"No need. It's coming to you." Booth flipped open his cell, punching a few quick digits and said, "Bring him in, boys." A moment later, the large main doors to the Medico-Legal lab opened and two men with a gurney came in. Booth glanced at Brennan and caught her questioning look. "I'm a man who plans, Bones. I wasn't sure you'd be here and I really didn't want to drag Zack out into the real world."

By then, the men had arrived with "their" body, and Brennan hobbled down a few stairs on her crutches to meet them halfway and swipe her card so they could come up to the lab platform without setting off the alarm system.

When the body was transferred to a metal exam table and the delivery men had left, Booth pulled back the sheet covering the corpse.

"Male." Brennan said, mostly to herself. "Between forty and fifty years of age."

Booth was always impressed with his partner's calm in the midst of horrific images and bodies, and this was no exception.

The body before them had been brutally mutilated. The vast majority of the flesh of his face had been burned away--a few fragments of musculature remained and the eyes were present, though charred. His eyelids were gone and much of his nose was burned to destruction, with portions of the flesh curled up into the nasal cavity. Without lips or cheeks, his teeth were bared in an unholy grin. Booth knew and Brennan would soon find that the palms of the man's hands and the soles of his feet had also been roasted to the bone. He was dressed in unscorched clothing, though: a white dress shirt, maroon and brown striped tie, black pants. His shoes and socks were gone, and besides that and the red blossom of bloodstain on his side from a stab wound, his attire was unblemished and ordinary. The whole body gave off an odor of burnt skin and hair: a sharp, hot, singed-dust smell, with an undertone of roasted meat.

"He was found in Elmira Park near the pond. Old lady, name of Agnes Billings, followed her dog to what he thought was dinner. Scared the woman half to death. She called 911; the rest is history. So, you know, don't be surprised to find a couple Bichon Frise hairs in there."

"That would be very unlikely. Breeds like the Bichon Frise have been bred selectively to minimize shedding. I doubt that the dog's presence will impact the evidence."

"Albert."

Brennan looked up at him. "What?"

"Dog's name is Albert."

"How could that possibly be pertinent to the investigation?"

"Just trying to be thorough, Bones. Doing my job."

Brennan finished her initial inspection quickly--after all, very little of the skeleton was visible, then she called in her team.

"Angela, please search missing persons databases for possible matches and begin facial reconstruction. Hodgins, search his clothing for particulates. Zack, see if you can identify the instrument used for this wound." They each set about their separate tasks. Brennan got out the Jeffersonian's autopsy camera and began taking pictures, then she adjusted the table lighting and started a finer investigation of the hands, feet, and skull.

"You know," Hodgins called over from his microscope. "The pattern of mutilation could be extremely significant."

"How so?" asked Brennan.

"You've got to recognize the symbolism." Hodgins returned, then waited for a response. "Nothing? People, come on. Booth, you, out of everyone here, should see it."

"See what, Hodgins? That the guy was roasted like franks on a barbecue?"

"The hands, feet, face. The wound in his side. It's a stigmata." Seeing everyone's skeptical looks, he elaborated. "There are literally hundreds of recorded cases in which the victim bleeds or manifests wounds spontaneously in a manner that mimics the way Jesus Christ was wounded in the crucifixion. According to tradition, anyway. Booth, every Catholic in the world has heard of the stigmata phenomenon."

"Sure, I've heard of it. Saw the movie and everything. It's always been a little too hocus-pocus-y for me."

"Jack," Angela began. "You're not suggesting that this poor man magically burst into flames to, what, supernaturally honor Christ?"

"No. No, not at all. What I'm suggesting is that he was tortured in a way that would mirror stigmata. It's not without precedent. For St. Francis of Assisi and Padre Pio, it's miraculous. For practitioners of Theosophy, it's self-inflicted. In Santeria and Yoruba, it can be used as a forced initiation of faith. It's all in your point of view. It's a small step from there to move on to stigmata imagery as torture."

"Yeah," Booth said, "Or maybe the killer was just going for sensitive body parts. Hands, feet, face. That kind of mutilation would be pretty painful. Taking advantage of specific areas is much more efficient torture if you want reliable answers to your questions. Palms, soles of the feet--lots of nerve endings there."

Angela closed her eyes and shook her head. "Booth, that is disturbing on many, many levels."

Booth shrugged. "It's not Fun Facts on the back of a cereal box, but it is useful information in a combat situation."

Angela held her hand up in a 'stop' gesture. "Please. No more, Booth. I really don't want to hear this."

"Or," interjected Brennan, "the victim died from the wound in his side, and the killer was merely trying to make it harder to identify the victim: no fingerprints, no face."

"But if that were the case," Zack broke in, "Why not remove the clothes too? They can be used in identification."

"Yeah, but this casual business wear isn't exactly distinctive," argued Booth. "And good luck tracing this." He fingered the striped tie. "The whole outfit screams Wal-Mart. Pretty generic."

"My point is, there's just no way to discern motive yet. All this conjecture about torture and religopolitical significance is just guesswork until we can identify our victim."

Booth grinned at his partner. "True. So how about a walk in the park? Check out the scene, see if anyone knows anything."

"Sounds good."

"You are up to it, right?" Booth eyed her cast and crutches. "I mean, I don't want you to…uh…to…" Booth tapered off as Brennan glared at him.

"If you ask me that one more time, Agent Booth…"

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry."

"Thank you. Can we go?"

"We can." Booth fished his keys out of his pocket as the two of them started out of the lab. The squints returned to their examination of the body, with Hodgins muttering, "This is going to turn out to be some kind of sacred Illuminati ritual. I can feel it."

"Only you, Jack." Angela started to her studio to begin a rendition of the victim's face. "Booth brings in some horribly disfigured, maimed human being and you're like a kid on Christmas morning."

"Better believe it, baby."


	2. Chapter 2

The park was idyllic. Trees peppered the northwest corner, maples and oaks with dappled sunlight spotted the grass below. A small reflective pond graced the far end and an 8-seater swing set overshadowed a modest sandbox, a dozen or so children, some laughing, some shrieking, clambered over the area. The rest of the park was field: open, green, welcoming. It was perfect for tag, Red Rover, or throwing Frisbees to dogs. It was also a perfect cadaver hangout, at least according to the mystery guest currently in the Jeffersonian's lab.

"So what exactly are we looking for?" Brennan asked as she tried to maneuver her crutches over the soft ground.

"Oh, the usual," Booth replied, squinting in the bright light. "Signs of a struggle, drag marks, scorching, maybe a couple shoes. You know, Bones. Clues."

"You don't think he was killed here, do you? It's so…public."

"Nope. That I do not. But we can't rule anything out just yet. Isn't that your mantra? Don't jump to conclusions?"

Brennan's cell phone chirped.

"Brennan."

"Dr. Brennan," Zack Addy began excitedly. "We have some information for you."

"What is it?"

"I'm still narrowing down the specifics, but it looks like the victim was stabbed with a fairly standard kitchen knife. And the stabbing was definitely perimortem."

"Zack, I appreciate the update, but that isn't particularly helpful. The victim was stabbed with a common, nondescript knife shortly before or after his death? We're going to need a lot more than that to find the killer."

"Of course, Dr. Brennan. I just wanted to keep you updated on our status. The real news is Angela's. She identified the victim."

"Well, put her on, Zack!"

Brennan could hear the amplified shuffle as Zack handed the phone to Angela.

"Hey, hon. Sorry to cut your promenade in the park so short."

"Angela, Zack said you identified the victim."

"Okay, I get it. Enough with the small talk. Hello to you too, by the way."

"Angela…"

"Chill, sweetie. His name is Michael August. He's the senior pastor at Faith Community Church; 44 years old; graduated from Olivet in 1988; interned at Unity Baptist in West Virginia until 1992; was assistant pastor at Pilgrim's Way Nondenominational Chapel through '96; and from there, began at Faith Community. Married 21 years to Allison Beck August, two kids, one dog."

Brennan was speechless.

"Bren--are you there?"

"How-Angela, how did you find all that out?"

Angela chuckled. "It wasn't really that hard. When Hodgins took the shirt for analysis, we found a tract in the breast pocket. You know, 'this is your brain; this is your brain on God?' Anyway, it had the church's name, address, phone number, and website stamped on. I compared my facial reconstruction sketch to the pictures posted online, and…well, behold the wonders of the Internet."

"That's fantastic. Thanks, Ange. Hang on a minute." Brennan held the phone against her right shoulder as she turned to her partner to share the news.

"We have a name already?" Booth interrupted immediately, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Yes, we do. Michael August, pastor of a local church."

"Do we know which local church?"

"Faith Community. I've driven by it. It's on Marks near Inverness. But Booth, Angela says he was married too. Shouldn't we see her first?"

Booth's face hardened, a look attesting to his empathy for Mrs. August. "Gotta let the widow know she's a widow. Do you have an address or a number?"

"Angela does." Brennan returned to her phone. "Ange, we're going to talk to her. You have the parsonage location and contact information for the victim's wife?"

"Of course I do, Bren. But next time, let's work on your 'please' and 'thank you' skills. It's 2842 Jefferson Court, and the number is 555-0102."

Angela heard Brennan repeat the specifics to Booth just before the click and hum of the dial tone. "You're welcome," she quipped into the phone, shaking her head.

Allison Beck August fingered her husband's tie as she sat, reeling with shock and grief, in one of the FBI interrogation rooms. Brennan was always impressed with Booth's ability to break the news of a loved one's death to a wife, husband, son, or daughter. Brennan watched, mostly in silence today, from the other side of the observation window as Booth gently explained the circumstances surrounding the recovery of Mr. August's body. It was with great respect and almost reverence that he gave Mrs. August her husband's necktie and the leaflet from his pocket. Booth explained in hushed tones that evidence was still being gathered from his other personal effects, but once the case was closed, they would be made available to family.

"I don't understand," Allison whispered, clenching the tie, tangling it in her shaking fingers. "You don't need me to…to identify him? Can you be certain it's Michael?"

"Mrs. August, we use facial recognition tools that produce very consistent results. And if you can verify that these items were on your husband's person…"

Allison nodded, eyes squeezed shut, seemingly unable to speak, then murmuring, "But can you be _certain_?"

Booth paused a moment before answering. "Our reconstruction imaging is very accurate. We use it when family and friends can't reliably make an identification. Most people recognize others from their most familiar, visible features: their hands, face. In your husband's case, Mrs. August, there was just too much trauma."

Allison was crying outright now, shuddering, one clenched fist to her mouth.

Booth covered her other hand with his own. "I'm so sorry for your loss. Can you think of anyone who might've wanted to harm your husband? Any old rivalries, anyone with a grudge?"

"Michael was a good man. He--his life revolved around his family and his church. And he was very well loved by both."

Booth nodded, and gave Allison's hand a gentle squeeze, then stood. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. August. And again, I'm very sorry for your loss. God be with you."

"And also with you," Allison returned, almost on impulse.

Booth nodded once more, then turned and exited the interrogation room, leaving Allison at the stark table, the dark textured walls an appropriate background for her continuing grief.

A moment later, the staff door opened and Booth stepped out to join Brennan at the observation window. The pair quietly watched the stunned and sorrowful Mrs. August for about a minute until Brennan spoke up.

"Do you think she did it?"

Booth shook his head. "Nah. She was genuine."

"How can you be so sure?" his partner asked in an unconscious imitation of the widow.

"I've seen enough liars and fakers and slime to know when I'm being played. And she was real. She truly is shocked and horrified." Booth nodded to the scene on the other side of the glass.

Allison August was right where Booth had left her, but now a guard had entered, in hopes of escorting her out. Mrs. August, though, remained firmly rooted in her chair, still crying, and clutching her husband's tie to her chest.

"So who's next in your queue?" Brennan asked. "Do you have another suspect in mind?"

"In my _queue_?" Booth rolled his eyes in exaggerated exasperation.

"Yes. It means a line or lineup, and, although you don't literally have suspects in a line--"

"I know what a queue is, Bones."

"Then why did you--"

"Because it's not normal English. Nobody west of Liverpool would even say stuff like that."

"Booth, Liverpool is _in_ England."

"Exactly my point."

"How is that your point? If you're looking for examples of standard English, England would be an ideal place to start."

"Not England English, Bones. American. Nobody who speaks _American_ would talk like that."

"'American' isn't a language, Booth."

Booth closed his eyes and heaved a sigh in a show of infinite patience. "Fine. Okay. You win. Can we just drop it?"

Brennan shrugged.

"Besides, Allison August was never really a suspect. I mostly brought her in for information."

"Why isn't she a suspect? Isn't the victim's spouse always the most likely?"

"Sure, generally, but this woman couldn't have done all that. Look at her, Bones. Do you really think she'd be able to stab the guy and burn him past recognition? Even if she used a sedative and tied him down, she doesn't have it in her."

"So my question remains. Who's next in your…" Brennan narrowed her eyes mischievously at Booth, smiling lightly. "…Gut?"

"You heard her. Michael August's life revolved around his family and his work. If it wasn't family, my next bet is the assistant pastor."

"The assistant pastor? I don't remember her mentioning him. Or her."

"There's always an assistant pastor, Bones." Booth checked his watch. "1:25 on a Monday. He'll be there. Shall we?"

Bones shifted herself more squarely onto her crutches. "We shall."

After negotiating midday DC traffic, the agent and the anthropologist found themselves in the quiet vestibule of Faith Community Church.

"Excuse me, sir?" Booth addressed a bearded man, broadly built, kneeling and oiling the hinges of a darkly stained door.

"Help you?" The man craned his neck, meeting Booth's eyes, but didn't stand.

"Yeah, maybe. We're looking for the pastoral offices."

"Oh, sure. Go along straight, hallway on your left, last couple offices. Pastor Mike ain't in, but Pastor Dave is."

"Great. Thanks, Mister…"

"Logan. Barry Logan."

"Mr. Barry Logan."

"Welcome."

Booth shifted his weight and turned slightly as if to leave, then changed his find, focusing his attention back on Logan. "Mr. Logan, do you attend services at this church?"

"Sure do. It'd be kind of awkward, me being the custodian, if I didn't."

"I guess so. You know, Tempe and I, we were looking into this place. What do you think of it?" Booth asked, as he reached toward Brennan, placing his open palm on the small of her back.

Brennan met her partner's eyes sharply, surprised at his sudden and unprofessional display of affection. She relaxed almost immediately, though, as she realized that Booth must have been implying the relationship as a means of establishing a rapport with Logan, which he certainly couldn't achieve if he'd flashed his badge.

Logan stood, finally, and scratched his thick, dark beard. His pale blue eyes flicked about the ceiling and walls, as if his answer might be found in one of the many felt banners proclaiming 'He is risen!' and 'Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be made white as snow.'

"You folks looking for a church home?"

Booth smiled broadly but did not actually answer.

"Because I gotta tell you, this is a good place. Good people, good congregation. Only trouble is, it ain't what it used to be, far as preaching goes."

"How so?"

"Well, Pastor Mike--he's a good guy, now, don't get me wrong--he's awful interested in how God is love, and there's redemption for all what ask, and we'll all go to Heaven and spend happy eternity in the loving, comforting arms of Jesus Christ."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing's wrong with that. It's sound Bible principle. Trouble is, that's all he preaches."

Booth cocked an eyebrow, prompting Logan to continue.

"There's another side to it, see? God surely is love, but He is also vengeance. Not everybody's going to Heaven. It ain't rainbows and angels for all, you get me? There's a Hell just as certainly as there's a Heaven, and people, sinners, folks committing abominations against the Lord, they're on the fast track to the lake of fire. Do you know your Bible?"

"Yes sir," Booth answered, not missing a beat.

"Well, that Bible is the infallible word of God, and it says something about sinners, liars, fornicators, idolaters, and homosexuals. Now, if they repent, that's one thing. They're saved by the grace of Jesus Christ and pure in the eyes of God. But if they don't…" Logan trailed off and shrugged his broad shoulders. "Pastor Mike don't like to think about that, so he don't preach it. I think a little hellfire's good for the soul every now and again. Wakes you up, even God's elect. Makes you remember not to take nothing for granted."

Brennan observed the exchange in silence, mentally recording the conversation to pour over later.

"In general, though, you'd recommend this church?"

"Yes, sir. I surely would. Like I say, I got great respect for Pastor Mike. Great respect. I don't always agree with his point of view, but until you start pastoring your own church, you ain't never gonna find a preacher you agree with one hundred percent, you know what I mean?"

"I sure do, Mr. Logan."

"But Pastor Mike, he's a real good guy. I'd stand up for him any day."

"Thank you, Mr. Logan. You've been a great help." Booth thrust out his hand and Logan shook it, his grip strong.

"More than welcome. What'd you say your name was?"

"I didn't. And I'm afraid we're going to be late for our appointment. Pleasure meeting you. Thanks again." Booth released Logan's hand and he guided Brennan, his hand still behind her, in the direction Logan had indicated.

Halfway down the hall, Brennan spoke up. "Booth, we don't have an appointment. You never called ahead."

"True. But I don't want our pal Barry to start thinking the FBI is here. I'd rather keep as many people in the dark as long as possible. Ah." Booth stopped. "Here we are." He rapped sharply on the half open door and stepped in the office. "Pastor Dave?"

"Come in."

Booth continued in, his partner close behind. The walls were littered with posters, flyers, and sticky-note reminders. A wire trash basket overflowed with crumpled sheets of paper. Before them, a large, though obviously inexpensive desk dominated the room, with an overhead lamp set at a rakish angle to the left, and two well worn, maroon, lightly upholstered chairs facing it. At the desk sat a plump, balding, ruddy-cheeked, jovial man in a casual dress shirt and untacked tie emblazoned with a fish motif.

"Can I help you folks?"

"Are you Pastor Dave?" Brennan asked.

"In the flesh. Have a seat." Dave gestured to the chairs. "Make yourselves comfortable."

Once they were seated, Dave asked again, "So what can I do for you? Or are you with the couples counseling group?"

Booth opened his mouth to speak, but the assistant pastor cut him off. "Forgive me, forgive me. I'm terrible at remembering faces--terrible curse for a pastor, right? Really puts a cap on how far I can go in the people-helping business, doesn't it?

"But enough with that. Aaron and Gina, right? This is, what? Session number two for you folks?"

"Actually, we're not--" Brennan began, but Dave interrupted.

"Josh and Amy! I'm so sorry. Forgive me. Where did we leave off last time? Right, of course. Amy, are you finding yourself more comfortable in your intimacies with Josh?"

"No, I don't--"

"Amy, now weren't you going to work on that? I know it can be difficult, but when God created humans, male and female, He created a great capacity for the pleasure that can be derived from the sort of relationship a husband and wife can enjoy in each--"

"Pastor Dave, we're not here for couples counseling." In a smooth motion, Booth slipped his badge from his interior pocket and held it up for the assistant pastor to see. Dave's eyes widened and Booth could see that the man was finally listening. "I'm Special Agent Seeley Booth and this is my partner, Temperance Brennan. We're here about Pastor August."

"Mike? What about him?"

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"Well, he delivered the Sunday sermon, of course. Third in his series on Job. Then, after a short time for fellowship following the service, Mike usually takes the rest of his weekend for himself and his family. Why? Has something happened?"

"So you haven't seen him since late Sunday morning, then?"

"Around noon, yes."

"And you have no idea what might have happened afterward?"

"No, Agent Bell, I don't. Please, what is this about?"

"It's Agent Booth, actually. Michael August's remains were discovered early this morning in a public park."

The color drained from Dave's face. "Good gracious. What happened? Did he have a heart attack? His father died recently of a heart attack."

"No, sir. The FBI doesn't investigate heart attacks. Pastor August was murdered."

"Murdered! By whom?"

"That's what we're trying to find out. Can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against August? Any rivalries, jealousies, offenses? Any trouble he might have been in?"

"No, none. Mike was a well-respected man, a man with integrity. He loved his Lord and the people he served. And they love him as well."

"Love him?" Brennan spoke up. "How exactly do you mean?"

"Well, not romantically, of course. Are you a religious woman, Mrs…"

"Dr. Brennan."

"Yes, of course. Dr. Brennan. Are you a Christian?"

"No."

"Well, there is a deep-rooted respect and affection, almost an allegiance, between a pastor and his church. Rather like the relationship of a shepherd and his flock."

"Sir, can you think of any reason at all why someone would want to hurt Michael August?" Booth asked.

"None whatsoever. Mike was a peace-loving man and his life reflected that."

Booth nodded slowly. Brennan watched her partner critically. He wasn't looking at the pastor with his 'I know what you did, and I'm going to get you for it' look. Booth believed him. Which meant that Pastor Dave would not be likely to find himself on the suspect list. Which meant that they were still on square one.

There was a quick sound of movement, and a door opened to the far right that Brennan hadn't even noticed. A slight woman, probably in her late sixties or early seventies, bustled in, her black orthopedic shoes making a muted shuffle on the tile floor.

"Reverend! Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were in a meeting."

"Not at all, June." Dave waved toward the woman. "This is June Baker, our secretary," he said by way of introduction. "These people are with the FBI. Agents Bell and Bannan. They're investigating; apparently Pastor Mike has been murdered."

"Murdered! Good Lord." June's hand flew to her chest.

Booth grimaced, clearly not thrilled that Dave had so freely told the woman that they were law enforcement. "Agent Booth and Dr. Brennan, actually. Are you all right, ma'am?"

June was pale, looking like she might pass out at any moment. She shook her head, though, and appeared to recover. "No, I'm fine, thank you. It's just such a shock. Murdered! Who would do such a thing?"

"That's what they're investigating, June," Dave replied. "Why don't you come sit down?" He stood, offering his chair to her.

June made no move to accept his offer. "Well, I'll tell you who did it. The ZCB. They're always raising troubles, always giving the reverend such a terrible time."

"The ZCB?" Booth asked, pulling out a notepad and pen.

"Yes, sir. The Zion Celebration Baptist Church. They're fundamentalists." June gave a knowing nod to Brennan.

Brennan blinked and leaned in toward Booth. "I'm not sure what she means by that."

"She means they're not real compromising in what they believe, Bones. No holds barred, take no prisoners; Christianity at its least tolerant."

"Like hellfire?" Brennan asked, remembering Logan's speech.

"And how!" June interjected. "Those people have so many laws and rules, they have no room left in their hearts for mercy. They absolutely tormented Reverend August."

"Could you elaborate on that, ma'am?"

"Yes, I could. They sent him awful letters and e-mails, telling him he was damned. Damned! Can you imagine anyone saying such things to that gentle man? They'd even sit in on his sermons, sometimes, and stand up to argue a point. In the middle of the service! And him at the pulpit!"

"To your knowledge, did anyone ever make any specific threats against August?"

"Not to my _knowledge_," June answered, emphasizing her words. "But it wouldn't surprise me in the least if they had. Not in the least."

Booth nodded. "Thank you for your cooperation, ma'am. Pastor." Booth stood and shook the pastor's hand while Brennan pulled herself up and repositioned her crutches. "I may be calling again with further questions."

"Anything we can do to help." June gave Booth a weak smile as the two partners turned and exited the office.


	3. Chapter 3

Seeley Booth and Temperance Brennan were both surprised to find Zion Celebration Baptist Church's gravel parking lot very nearly filled to capacity. Booth pulled in slowly and found a place between a badly rusted Ford pickup and a robin's egg Toyota Prius.

"Do you suppose there's a wedding?"

"I don't know, Bones. Maybe."

"Well…" Brennan trailed off, and flipped open the mirror on the back of the passenger-side visor. She then dug a makeup compact from her purse and began to touch up foundation below her right eye.

Booth watched her performance with curiosity. "Well what, Bones? I'm sorry if it's inconvenient, but there's been a murder. That takes precedence over a wedding, a funeral, even a bar mitzvah."

Booth paused, waiting for his partner's reply. Oblivious, she continued applying the skin-tone cream, now focusing on her cheekbone.

"Even over a bar mitzvah," Booth prompted, then waited again. "Bones, aren't you going to correct me?"

"Hmm?" Brennan finally glanced at Booth, momentarily.

"I said our investigation takes precedence over a bar mitzvah. And you weren't going to butt in and say bar mitzvahs are Jewish?"

"Obviously, you already know that."

Booth sighed and sat back in his seat. Brennan checked her handiwork critically.

"Bones, what are you doing?"

Brennan cast him another half-second glance.

"I mean, I know you're putting on makeup, but…you know…in all the time I've known you, I don't think I've ever seen you fuss about your appearance."

"The bruises haven't faded yet."

"What?"

"From the car accident. They're yellow now, and not particularly flattering. I'd rather not look like a kingpin."

"A kingpin? I'm not even sure what metaphor you're going for, Bones, but you look great."

"Because of the makeup."

"No, Bones. I mean, really. You look great."

Brennan finally relinquished a soft smile. "Thanks, Booth."

"How's the leg, by the way?"

Brennan shrugged, her eyes focused intently on folding away the visor.

"Bones."

"It's fine."

Booth was silent.

"It aches."

"A lot?"

"I can manage."

Booth sighed. "Didn't the doctor give you medication for that?"

"Yes."

"And are you using it?"

"Booth, it's fine. I'm fine. I'm taking care of it."

"Bones…"

"Booth, he gave me opioid analgesics. I can't work properly under the effects of those kinds of drugs."

"So what drugs _are _you using?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but I've been taking non-steroidal anti-inflammatory medications."

"Okay, even I know that means Tylenol."

"No, for your information, it's not Tylenol."

"Motrin, then."

Brennan was quiet.

"Bones, I'm not playing twenty questions with you."

"Good. I don't want you to. And I also don't need you to baby-sit me."

Booth clenched his jaw, frustrated and a little disgusted. "Great. I just want to make sure you're being taken care of."

"_I_ am taking care of me, Booth."

"Fine."

"Fine."

With that, Booth jumped out of the SUV, crossing toward the church entrance. Brennan followed, somewhat more clumsily. He paused under the simple portico, waiting for his partner to catch up. Booth held the door for her to pass. Brennan didn't hold grudges, he reflected, but the resentful look on her face told him that he would probably stay firmly lodged in the doghouse, at least for the time being. Booth sighed again. There wasn't likely anything he could do about it anyway.

"--the devil's own among us!" a voice boomed from the sanctuary.

"They have a service on Monday afternoon?" Brennan asked her partner.

"Evidently," Booth replied.

They both stepped quietly inside, finding pews discreetly near the back.

"It is the devil's influence, Satan's voice, that leads human beings into damnation. It is Satan's voice that urges us to partake of evil programming on our televisions!"

Several scattered 'amens' sounded from the congregation.

"It is Satan's voice that tells us to turn our radio dials to music abominable to God!"

More amens.

"It is Satan's voice again that abides in the public schools, filling our children's minds with the lies of evolution!"

Brennan prickled as the congregation responded with especial vehemence. The pastor was nearly shouting now, his motions more frenetic, and he dabbed sweat from his brow with a dark blue handkerchief.

"It is Satan's voice that encourages our teenagers in cross-dressing, urging girls and women to forsake dresses, to cut their hair."

The congregation was matching the pastor, stroke for stroke. Each separate amen resonated against the tall ceiling and together they were forming almost a continuous chord.

"What is abortion? What is alcohol? What is a man's long hair? 'For I tell you, it is a _shame _for a man to have long hair.' These are the voice of Satan! What is it to be gay? To be an adulterer? To be an atheist, a pagan, a Catholic?" Booth clenched and unclenched a fist, and Brennan could see the tendons stand out on his forearm. "To be a liar or a pardoner of liars? Children, to disrespect your parents? Wives, to disrespect your husbands? To forsake your country and vote into office men who idealize affirmative action and would do away with our right to bear arms? This is the influence of the voice of Satan!" The pastor was in a furor and had given up on the handkerchief. "Church, stop your ears with the Scripture! Stop your ears to the lies of the devil.

"I know how it is to be in the world, Church. I know the temptations and the desires of the flesh.

"Children, maybe you're tempted to watch cartoons instead of come to church. What should you do?" He gave them no time to answer. "Stop your ears, children.

"Teens, if a friend says, 'hey, listen to this song; it's really cool,' but the music doesn't glorify the Lord, what should you do? Stop your ears.

"Women, if you say to yourself, 'I don't have faith enough in God or in my husband to provide for our family. Maybe I should get a job outside my home.' What should you do? Ladies, stop your ears!"

This time, it was Booth who observed Brennan's eyebrows shoot up, completely taken aback.

"Men, if a neighbor says to you, 'Come over for a beer, just one, what'll it hurt?' what should you do? Stop your ears!

"Stop your ears, Church. The devil is all around us, every day. Everyone, think of this last week. I'm sure every soul in this room can think of at least one person--man, woman, or child--who spoke in the voice of Satan, urging you into sin."

Brennan leaned toward Booth and whispered into his ear, "These people really believe this."

"I know. Scary, isn't it? Fundamentalism was an understatement."

"It's not scary. It's amazing: People of dissimilar backgrounds, of dissimilar demographics, all proclaiming faith in a completely outdated belief system. Total exclusivity, requiring total conformity, and strict adherence, an entirely insular culture. You rarely see this kind of behavior outside of charismatic, physically isolated sects."

Booth stared at her. "You're _interested_ in this?"

"You're not?"

Booth widened his eyes in exaggerated shock.

"The opportunity to observe the mass voluntary acceptance of unachievable commandments comes once in a lifetime. These people have created a society of norms and mores unequivocally shunned by the larger society around them. Fringe groups always believe in their moral superiority as a survival mechanism, but this group professes a moral absolute."

"English, Bones. We've talked about this."

"Booth, these individuals are being voluntarily brainwashed with a code of reference that doesn't even support most of their claims."

Booth looked baffled again.

"The Bible, Booth. Where does it say that affirmative action is right or wrong? How can it condemn long hair when it extols the hero Samson, whose strength was in his hair, to paraphrase? Have you read any condemnation against the Catholic faith in the Bible? Because I haven't. Yet this group continually sites this book as their maximus liber."

"You've read the Bible?"

"Of course. And the Koran, and the Vedic texts and the Kaballah. I'm an anthropologist."

"Huh."

"What?"

"Then why are you always asking me questions about Catholicism?"

"I've read the book Booth, but that doesn't make me privy to the details of practice."

Their whispered conversation trailed off as both partners noticed that the congregation was standing and had begun a closing hymn.

Booth was on his feet in an instant and was tugging at Brennan's elbow, urging her to do likewise. Awkwardly, she stood, leaning on the back of the pew in front of her.

"What are we singing?" Brennan murmured, glancing around. No one held a hymnal. Evidently this was so familiar a song, everyone had it memorized.

Listening carefully, she picked out the words, muddied by so many voices, some on key, some near key, most seemingly making up keys and chords as they went. "Thou changest not, Thy compassions, they fail not. As Thou hast been, Thou forever wilt be."

A portly woman who had recently occupied the pew Brennan was now leaning on, turned around as she sang, flashing the pair a bright, wide smile, before turning back again to face front. "As I have needed, Thy hand has provided. Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me."

The song ended, the accompanying piano fell silent, and the voices tapered off, the dissonance giving way to the chatter of people who've been pent up just long enough.

"I'm Irene Walsh. Welcome to Zion Celebration," the woman in front of them had about-faced again. "It's such a blessing to see young couples seeking the Lord. And so well dressed too!" Irene exclaimed, eyeing Booth's suit.

"Thank y--"

"My own husband, Louie, God rest his soul, always felt that there were three events a man needed to dress up for: going to church, going to weddings, and going to his own funeral."

"Ma'am, actually--"

"Of course, Louie, Lord bless him, he didn't have quite such a fine lady hanging on his arm. A wife does have to inspire her husband a bit, don't you agree, dear?"

"We're not married," Brennan announced somewhat haltingly.

"Oh," Mrs. Walsh paused, momentarily speechless. The moment passed, though, before either Booth or Brennan could seize it. "Well, living in sin is not unforgivable."

Booth opened his mouth to speak, but Mrs. Walsh held up her hand in a 'stop' gesture.

"I know, the world says it's all right. If you like someone, just go ahead and, I don't know, sally forth. Move in. But God promises so much more if you'll live according to His laws!" Irene reached out suddenly and grasped Brennan's hand. Booth was surprised to not that, not only did Bones not pull back, but she appeared to actually be engaged in the conversation. "How long have you two been together, love?"

"We've been partners for two years."

"Partners? My word. And do you love him?"

"Do I--what?"

"You see, that's my point. If you've not committed yourselves, it's hard to really cement your feelings for one another."

"Mrs. Walsh, Booth and I aren't together." A shadow passed over Brennan's face. "Of course, we are physically together, now, in front of you. I mean, our relationship is limited to our partnership."

Irene Walsh's brow furrowed. "Limited to the physical, you mean? Dear, you should put a higher value on yourself. Now, is this gentleman your only partner?"

"My only…" comprehension dawned on Brennan's face. "No, no, Mrs. Walsh, I think you misunderstand. Booth and I are partners at work. And I don't mean to sound disrespectful to your beliefs, but I'm somewhat uncomfortable discussing my sexual practices with you."

Booth shifted uneasily. There were few conversations for which Seeley Booth was unprepared. This was most definitely one of them.

Happily, the man who had been booming at the pulpit appeared at Booth's side. "Welcome to Zion Celebration! I'm Pastor Adam Riley. Will you folks be joining us for our dinner potluck? Tonight at six; everyone's welcome."

"Pastor Riley, just the man I wanted to see." Booth was clearly relieved by the interruption, and flashed his badge discreetly.

In her peripheral vision, Brennan saw Irene Walsh's eyebrows soar up in surprise as she bumbled out of her pew and joined a flock of women at the front of the church.

"Well, the FBI's welcome too. What can I do for you?"

"I've heard you've been having some troubles with Faith Community Church."

"Have they lodged another complaint? Let me tell you, sir, it's nothing but poor doctrine and misguided intentions. I have no problem with those people. None whatsoever. I'd be pleased to have any one of them come by."

"Even Pastor August?"

"Of course Pastor August. Mike and I disagree on some issues, but I believe, at the heart of things, we're still good friends."

"Good friends?"

Pastor Riley hiked up his charcoal suit pants. "Yes, sir."

"Good friends despite the fact that you seem to hate each other?"

"And just what is that supposed to mean?" Riley demanded.

"We've heard that you and your congregation have been harassing Mike August."

"Harassing?" Riley's aggression melted away. "Well, yes, I guess that is partially true."

"Partially?"

"With a church this size, there's bound to be some that, shall we say, are a bit more zealous than others. I've spoken with the offending parties, Agent, and I don't think there will be any more problems. I'm surprised, though, that the FBI has taken an interest. I would think local law enforcement would handle this sort of dispute."

"Ordinarily, yes, but the FBI developed an interest when August's body was found under some pretty suspicious circumstancces."

Riley paled. "Mike August is dead?"

"Afraid so, Preach."

"How horrifying. We'll have to include his family in our prayers at tonight's meeting. Do you have any leads?"

"To be honest, you and your congregation are looking good right about now."

"Let me assure you," Riley stated firmly, "that that is not the case. As a group, and as some individuals, we disagreed with Mike August's theology, but Zion Celebration was in no way involved in his death."

"Can you really vouch for _all_ your congregants, Pastor Riley?"

"In this church, we are deeply concerned with obeying the laws and commandments of God. One of those commandments is 'Thou shalt not murder.'"

Booth nodded thoughtfully. "Just the same, Pastor. Don't leave town."

As they exited the church, Brennan asked, "Why does everyone seem to assume we're married?"

"Human nature. People see a man and a woman together, they figure they're a couple. You're still thinking of Irene Walsh?"

"Her views are completely archaic. I find her fascinating."

"I'm stunned." Sarcasm dripped from Booth's voice.

Brennan chose to ignore his comment. "I was a little surprised at how interrogatory she was, though."

Booth chuckled. "Well, no one expects the Spanish Inquisition."

"The Spanish Inquisition? Booth, what are you talking about?"

"Come on, Bones. Monty Python? The Flying Circus?"

Brennan's face remained blank.

"You're hopeless, Bones. You know that? Hopeless."


End file.
